Layers of Protection
by Narelena
Summary: Peter's point of view the night after the Battle of Beruna. Fresh memories and a logistical problem plague Peter. Edmund renders assistance. Both brothers attempt to deal with the changes inevitably caused by battle. [primarily movieverse]


Disclaimer: Narnia and its characters are not mine. No infringement intended upon the property of C.S. Lewis, Disney, Walden Media, or anyone else involved.

Author's Note: All mistakes are that of the author. Hope you enjoy!

I blinked against the darkness of the tent. From outside I could hear the sounds of revelers as the celebration continued. Perhaps one could criticize them for being so joyful just after so many had fallen. But I do no begrudge them their joy; I would never deny my people that. _My_ people.

My eyes have now adjusted, and I walk slowly toward the sleeping area. Despite my elation over the victory at the Battle of Beruna, I suddenly feel as though all the rock in Narnia is sitting on my shoulders. I am distinctly aware for the first time all day (is it still day if I am sure we are into the early morning hours?) of the magnitude of what we have accomplished. And my body is now actively protesting the heavy armour that weighs upon it. I catch my reflection in a standing mirror; in the waning light I am not sure who is looking back at me. How can the armour I wear feel so alien and so familiar? I glance at the sword at my side. I knew my movements during the battle were unrefined, not the mark of a skilled swordsman, but it had felt so _right._ And so heavy.

Abruptly my weary body protests. I almost groan aloud at the thought of getting all the armour off myself. I learned this morning (yesterday?) that it was at least a two person affair to get into a haubergeon. Idly I wonder if I could fall asleep like this rather than struggle out of it. Probably, but I'd kill myself trying to get out of the hammock in the morning. Laughter that borders hysteria bubbles up. Peter, High King of Narnia, is killed in a tragic hammock accident. Better yet, King Peter, leader of hundreds of Narnian troops into battle, goes mad in his tent. Fantastic. Memories of the Battle suddenly inundate my mind. Sounds of steel clashing and the screech of dying creatures. A blur of color and sunlight reflected from blades. The overwhelming stench of sweat and blood. The feel of Edmund's blood on my hands. The tent starts to swirl around me and an unpleasantness feasters in my gut. I hastily push aside the tapestry door and stumble blindly to a cluster of bushes. I hit the ground on my knees just as my body rebelled, violently expelling the little I'd eaten.

Several long moments later the cool Narnian breeze dried the sweat on the back of my neck and the dirt under my hands grounds me. I draw a ragged breath, hoping no one has seen their new king in such an undignified position. Slightly embarrassed, I get to my feet and am relieved to see no one about. Inhaling the crisp night air, I make my way back to the tent. I enter, and for the second time my eyes adjust, revealing a slight figure in the middle of the tent. I start and instinctively reach for my sword. I spare a thought to contemplate the irony: I can instinctively reach for a sword I've not had for more than a few days.

"Calm down, Peter. Geez, who did you think I was?"

Oh Aslan, it was Edmund. My wonderfully annoying, wonderfully alive baby brother.

"Bloody hell, Ed! Make some noise next time" I retort sharply, angry at my own jumpy reactions. There was a pause as he considers his words; a new trend, that, one which will take some getting used to.

"I don't think you would've heard me," he finally says quietly. I feel color rush to my face as he takes a step closer. I open my mouth to speak, to make an excuse, but nothing comes out. He has reached me and stops an arm's length away. Slowly, he reaches out to grasp my arm above the vambrace. "Do not be ashamed. I, um, I did too. After Susan insisted I be seen in the healers' tents regardless of the cordial. The healer declared me fully well, of course. Just as a kindly faun set down a new change of clothes, I, er, made hasty use of a basin." Here Ed looked away, studying the grass. "They were all very kind and said it is a perfectly normal reaction. I was still mortified."

I cover his hand on my arm with my own. Who was the older brother here? "Thank you."

"Anyway," Edmund was now pulling me further into the tent, "when I saw you leaving the celebration, I figured you would want out of that clothing. Aslan knows how relieved I was to get out of them."

I let him position me near to a stand for the armour; for the first time I notice his was across the room, nearly identical, but smaller. I blinked rapidly, so small—child's size. What had I involved my brother in? I had failed to protect my younger siblings.

"Everyone has to grow up, Peter. You cannot protect us forever," He kneels down to under the leather clasps holding the greave to my shin. I try to bat his hand away, insisting I can do that myself. He'll hear nothing of it. Stubborn.

"It is not fair for you or the girls to have to witness such things." He's now set the pair of greaves to the side and stands to undo the vambraces.

He pauses on one clasp to look up at me. "There are four thrones at Cair Paravel. Aslan needs all of us to rule Narnia, to make it a safe land again. And I had a part in trying to destroy it—don't interrupt me—so it is not as though I am an innocent bystander. It was my _choice_ to fight, one that I would gladly repeat. We are all in this together."

"Ed…" My voice trails off as my throat closes. Take a deep breath I continue, "I am your brother; I never want any harm to come to you or the girls. I am here to protect you. But out there, today, I couldn't do that. And you couldn't do as you're told. You died out there!" I finally shout, voice cracking.

He says nothing for a long while, working to get the spaulders off. "I am here now," he offers finally.

In silence he unbuckles my scabbard. "Raise your arms," he commands. And I do. He's not tall enough to pull my tunic over my head, and I end up contorting myself to get the material off. I wince as it pulls on my arm.

Trust Ed to notice. Slowly he rotates my right arm until he finds where the mail has been broken. His jaw hardens as he gives me a pointed look; I gaze back steadily. I _am_ the older one.

"Sit." He nearly barks. Amused, I comply and settle on a wooden trunk. He pulls the hauberk up and over my head. I bite my lip as broken links pull at the flesh on my arm.

"You'd think they could come up with something better," Ed remarks, distracting me. "I mean, this chain mail pulls your hair something awful."

I smile at that. He sets the haubergeon on the stand and quickly removes the chausses from my legs. I wonder why he's doing this, but he seems determined. Not that I mind too much.

His attention is now back to my arm. The Witch's sword didn't penetrate my arm, per se; it more pinned it down. But chain mail breaks when pierced, the tiny rings opening sending uneven edges into any unsuspecting soft tissue. The combination of chain mail and a glancing blow made for an ugly wound.

"The Witch?" Edmund guesses. I nod. "Stay here." And with that he exits the tent.

While he's gone, I examine the wound. In the aftermath of the battle it hadn't troubled me; overwhelming concern for Ed dominated my thoughts for a long while. Later, the celebration and the need to be Peter, (almost) High King of Narnia, occupied my attention. Now however, with the muffled music of Narnia in the background, a fiery ache was spreading from my upper arm. It was a jagged wound, and even in the dim light I could make out pieces of metal rings embedded in my skin. I turned my head away; I did not want such a reminder of how close the battle had been.

He returns a short while later with a basin, salve, bandages, and forceps. He sets them down and goes to light the lanterns in the tent. Warm light baths the interior; when had my little brother become so efficient?

"I hope you appreciate the trouble I went through to get this stuff discreetly. I saved you from the perils of overbearing sisters and a concerned nation." He looks at me expectantly.

I smile, "Yes, Sir Edmund, truly this is the fruit of your most dangerous quest of all times. Your king is grateful." I duck as he tries to smack me upside the head. He straddles the trunk next to me and begins to pull the silken shirt away from the wound. It sticks, and he is forced to cut most of the sleeve away with a knife. He frowns, and I brace myself for what's coming.

"You should've said something!" he finally blurts out. I release a breath I hadn't known I was holding.

"It wasn't a big deal, and I didn't want to be fussed over. It didn't even bother me 'til just now. It's really minor, barely even stings," I hiss as he cleans my arm. "Really, Ed."

He now has the forceps in hand, but hesitates, "I think a healer should be doing this. I have no idea what I am doing. Besides, this might need sutures or something after."

I look over at him. I wanted him to do it, not a stranger, for reasons that didn't fully make sense in my mind. Could I ask this of a boy-child? "I would rather you did it, Ed," I say softly, "I trust you." And I did.

He meets my eyes and holds them. I wonder what he is looking for. Finally he nods. Carefully, he extracts three metal shards from my arm. It is a ridiculous amount of pain for such a small wound; I wonder vaguely if I could have more wine. I am not sure who was more relieved when it was over—Ed or myself. He applies some ointment and bandages it firmly.

"Did you mean it?" he asks, "that you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Then trust me when I say it was not your fault. I live with the consequences of my actions, and I must learn from them. You cannot protect me from everything, High King or not. It is enough to know that you are there for me as a brother. I do not like you being hurt either" He glances up at me.

I am surprised by the conviction in his voice; like it or not, my innocent little brother is gone. "I will always try to protect you, Edmund. I could not bear to lose you. Or the girls. But I guess I'm going to have to let you grow up. And I couldn't be more proud of the man you're becoming."

His eyes grow large at hearing this, and suddenly my arms are full of my younger brother. I hold him tightly, inhaling his scent. The memory of the last time I held Edmund on the battlefield threatens to overpower my mind; I resolutely pushed it away, imprinting _this_ moment in its stead.

The moment is ended with a jaw-cracking yawn from Edmund. He pulls back slightly in time to catch my answering one. "We should go to bed."

He nods and gets to his feet. "Thank you," I tell him. He smiles and lies down as I pull a fresh shirt from a trunk.

He settles in saying, "I'm going to be a king of Narnia, too, you know. I can take care of you sometimes."

I lean over to ruffle his hair and he scowls. "Maybe once in a while," I concede, "but I'm still older. Taking care of you is in my contract."

He mumbles something unintelligible; he's already asleep. New shirt in place, I too recline on a hammock. My earlier exhaustion comes rushing back to me. At least I won't die by a hammock in the morning, now. A wave of affection and gratitude for my brother washes over me. As much as I loathed to admit it, being looked after might not be such a bad thing. Not if it was my brother. And only on very few occasions. I have a reputation to maintain.

--End--

_Author's Notes:_

A few terms…

_Haubergeon_—chain mail tunic, ends at mid-thigh

_Vambrace_—plate mail or leather, protects the forearm

_Greave_—plate mail, protects lower leg (technically, half-greave)

_Spaulders_—plate mail, protects the shoulders and upper arms

_Chausses_—chain mail, protects the leg

And for those who are meticulous in attention to detail, I have assumed for the purpose of this story, Peter already removed his gauntlets (plate protection for hands).

Regarding the 'voice' of the boys:

If the Pevensie brothers sound older than a ten or thirteen year old usually does, it's intentional. As amazing as kids and teens are, I have a hard time imagining your 'everyday' children to be able to assume the throne and rule over an entire country. Among other things, critical thinking and abstract thinking are not full developed until puberty. To resolve this conflict in my mind, Aslan and his 'magic' accelerates the cognitive maturation of the siblings to a degree. I would assume this beginning of this could be seen even as early as the Battle of Beruna.

Thank you! -Narelena


End file.
